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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27454030">more and more each day</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/'>Anonymous</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Shameless (US)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Domestic Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 16:42:13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Rape/Non-Con, Underage</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,998</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27454030</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Ian’s in the wrong place at the wrong time when Frank comes home drunk. Mickey gets some unwanted insight into the Gallagher home life.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>198</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Anonymous</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>more and more each day</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Set during season 1. Mind the tags.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The house is emptier than Ian thinks he’s ever seen it. </p><p>Not that he’s complaining — it’s a new and pleasant experience to go grab a drink from the fridge in the middle of the night and not trip over someone passed out on the stairs or walk in on someone fucking on the couch. He blew Kash earlier that afternoon, for the first time in a long while, and when he wakes up in the middle of the night with the phantom taste of spunk on his tongue, soda’s his best solution for getting rid of it.</p><p>He takes a couple of gulps direct from the bottle but before he can close the fridge again, he hears the back door clatter open followed by heavy footsteps on the kitchen floor.</p><p>“Hey.”</p><p>Frank’s voice is slurred and Ian can’t keep from tensing when the door swings shut behind him. “Ge’ me a drink, wouldya?”</p><p>Ignoring him, Ian closes the fridge. “Go to sleep, Frank. I think the couch is free.”</p><p>He turns to head back up the stairs. The thump of Frank’s approach is far quicker than he expected and he yelps in surprise when Frank grabs his hair in a clumsy grip. Off-balance, Ian stumbles when Frank tugs him back but, still groggy from sleep, he can’t get his hands up quick enough to defend himself when Frank slams his head against the fridge with surprising force. </p><p>His vision goes white for a second, pain lancing through his skull, and he drops to his knees with a groan of pain as he presses a hand to his head. “The fuck, Frank?”</p><p>Frank lets go of his hair but his response is a barely audible slur, “-fuckin’ piece of shit.”</p><p>Before Ian can even get back to his feet, Frank’s fist comes down again, colliding with the side of his head hard enough that Ian’s brain feels like it’s rattling in his skull. He doesn’t bother trying to stand this time, just scrambles backward away from the kitchen as Frank looms over him. He’s swaying from the effect of the alcohol but the glint in his eyes is cold and dark and purposeful as he advances.</p><p>“Frank-”</p><p>His plea is met with an angry grunt as Frank picks up the nearest object and throws it at him. Ian barely gets his arm up in time for the mug to collide with his elbow, shattering and sending ceramic shards flying across the floor. Ian cries out, the shards leaving scratches along his arms and face, but before he can scurry back further, Frank’s foot comes to rest on his ankle, pressing down nearly hard enough to break bone.</p><p>“-the fuck you goin’?” Frank slurs. </p><p>The stench of alcohol pouring off is nothing new but it’s been a while since Frank felt the urge to beat the shit out of him. The last time Fiona stopped him before he could do any permanent damage but when Frank sneers down at him, Ian’s painfully aware of just how empty the house is and how little back-up he has. </p><p>“Coward,” Frank says derisively. He spits on him and Ian grimaces as he wipes it away. “Jus’ like your fuckin’ father.”</p><p>Frank rarely makes sense when he’s drunk but as he kicks Ian hard in the ribs, he seems even more unhinged than normal. The blows keep falling, flailing kicks to Ian’s legs, chest and face, and Ian cries out, raising his arms to try to protect himself as he hears garbled words from above him — <i>slut, Monica, liar, worthless, brother, cunt</i>. </p><p>“Frank, please,” Ian gasps, winded and aching under the onslaught. “I’m sorry, please-”</p><p>The blows stop for a second and Ian risks a glance up past his bleeding arms when Frank takes his weight off his ankle. However, his fear only grows at the clink that follows and the sight of Frank sliding his belt off.</p><p>“No,” he begs, “Frank, no!”</p><p>Frank’s only taken his belt to him once before, back when Ian was nine and tried to throw out his liquor. Frank beat him so badly he lost consciousness and Ian could barely sit down for two weeks afterwards.</p><p>Self-preservation kicks in and Ian sends up a quick prayer that Frank will be too drunk or uncoordinated to follow him as he raises his leg and lands a solid kick to Frank’s groin. Frank screeches in pain, dropping the belt and doubling over in agony, and Ian seizes his opportunity to scramble out of his reach. He bolts up the stairs, not looking back at Frank, and dashes back to his room, locking it behind him.</p><p>There’s silence for a long moment, long enough that Ian hopes Frank just took the hint and passed out on the floor, but he jumps when he hears something slam against the door.</p><p>“Open up!”</p><p>Another slam, almost enough to make the hinges give way, and Ian looks desperately around for a weapon. </p><p>“Open this door, you fuckin’ cunt!” The voice barely sounds like Frank, full of fury and outrage, and Ian reaches for his phone. Maybe Fiona won’t be too far away, or maybe Lip can get back in time to help him. “You don’t get to fuckin’ say no to me.”</p><p>“Fuck off, Frank!” Ian yells as the top hinge goes flying but his hands are shaking as he unlocks his phone. </p><p>The door crashes open before he can dial and Ian’s fingers slide uselessly across the screen as Frank charges forward, grabbing him by the front of his shirt and throwing him face-first onto the bed. Ian’s phone clatters to the ground but before he can reach for it, Frank is on top of him, pushing his head down into the pillow with enough force Ian thinks he’s going to suffocate.</p><p>“No!” he yells, thrashing against Frank’s grip. “Get off me, you asshole!”</p><p>Ian freezes when, rather than a punch to his kidneys or a belt to his back, Frank’s knees settle either side of his thighs. An unmistakeable bulge presses against his ass through the thin fabric of his boxers and Ian’s fear of a beating morphs into sheer terror when Frank mumbles above him, “Shhh. Know you like this, Mon.”</p><p>Ian yells into the pillow, lashing out as much as the position allows, but Frank doesn’t seem to care as he hauls Ian’s boxers down over his ass. There’s a brief pause, followed by the familiar tearing of a condom wrapper, and Ian thrashes again, doing his best to buck Frank off him even as his weight holds Ian down against the mattress. </p><p>He’s allowed a brief lungful of air when Frank grips his t-shirt and pulls it up over his head but Ian’s struggles are curtailed when Frank doesn’t both to pull it the whole way off. The fabric stays around Ian’s arms, trapping them together behind his back as Frank idly pulls it tighter, and Ian’s defiance gives way to begging when he feels Frank nudge his thighs apart, his cock sliding behind Ian’s cheeks to brush against his hole.</p><p>“Frank, no,” Ian begs. “Please, don’t do this. I’m not Monica — it’s me, it’s Ian. Please.”</p><p>“Shhh,” Frank orders, shoving Ian’s head deeper into the pillow until his lungs ache from the lack of air. “It’ll be quick, darlin'.”</p><p>He only lets go of his head in order to spread his cheeks apart and Ian’s gasping breaths turn into a scream of pain when Frank pushes inside. It hurts, a searing intrusion that steals what little air he has left, and he can’t stop his eyes from tearing up as he struggles helplessly against the material trapping his arms. “No, no, please. It hurts, please, please stop. Frank, please…”</p><p>Between the pain tearing through him and the sick scent of Frank’s breath rolling over him, Ian wants to vomit. Frank leans over him, pushing inside in shallow thrusts as he sucks biting kisses into the back of Ian’s neck, and Ian thinks being beaten unconscious would’ve been kinder when Frank murmurs in his ear, “Good boy.”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>—————</p>
</div>Midway through a Call of Duty match, Mickey almost doesn’t notice when his phone rings.<p>“Answer that shit,” Iggy says, elbowing him sharply in the ribs. “It’s throwin’ off my aim.”</p><p>“What fucking aim?” Mickey mutters, landing one last headshot for good measure before tossing his controller down. The caller ID is a surprise and he ducks through into the kitchen for privacy before picking up. “The fuck are you calling me for, Gallagher?”</p><p>There’s silence on the other end. Mickey’s about to hang up but he frowns when he hears a muffled grunt in the background. </p><p>“Gallagher, if you called me just to listen to you dicking some fag, I swear to god-”</p><p>He stops when he hears words above the grunting. With the television still blaring in the next room, he can only make out a handful — <i>“don’t do this”, “it’s Ian”, “please”</i> — but it’s enough to make his blood run cold. </p><p>“Gallagher?” He steps out the back door, his breath already visible in the cold air as he listens again in the relatively silence. “Firecrotch, you there?”</p><p>His grip on the phone tightens when he hears a pained shout on the other end of the line. There’s no other sounds of a fighting, no scuffling or noises of punches being thrown, just muffled pleas, “No, no, please. It hurts…”</p><p>It’s definitely Gallagher’s voice, although more scared and desperate than Mickey’s ever heard him. He tries to convince himself to hang up, that whatever fight Gallagher’s having isn’t his problem, but it’s a losing battle, one where the final blow is struck by Ian’s terrified voice begging, “Frank, please…”</p><p>Mickey’s in his car in seconds.</p><p>He thinks about hanging up — whatever’s happening to Ian, he doubts Mickey’s the one he would’ve called intentionally — but he can’t bring himself to cut off whatever feeble lifeline Ian’s got, so he puts his phone on his dashboard on speaker as he drives over to the Gallagher house as fast as the car will take him.</p><p>It’s an effort not to stop to throw up on the way. He hears Frank Gallagher’s voice on the other end of the line, slurred words of appreciation and encouragement mixed amid grunts and moans, and Mickey slams the horn in frustration as he yells down the line, “I am going to cut your dick off when I get there, you sick fuck!”</p><p>Wherever Ian’s phone is, it apparently isn’t close enough for Frank to hear (or maybe fucking his son is too much of a distraction), and Mickey’s grip tightens on the steering wheel when Ian’s pleas for him to stop dissolve into hitching sobs. </p><p>Mickey’s definitely going to kill Frank but as he pulls up outside the Gallaghers’ shitty house, he’s giving some serious thought to killing the rest of that fucking family too for letting him get away with this.</p><p>Tucking a gun in his pants, he grabs the baseball bat from the trunk, pockets his phone, and goes running up to the front door. The wood splinters as he kicks the lock, the door falling open instantly, and Mickey glances around at the darkened house and the shattered mug on the floor before taking the stairs two at a time. </p><p>“Knock, knock, motherfucker!”</p><p>There’s a rustling sound upstairs along with muffled cursing and Mickey strides down the hallway towards the only open door, bat raised and ready to swing. </p><p>Blind fury sweeps through him at the sight. Frank and Ian are both there, as expected, with Ian held down on the bed, his arms trapped behind him, and Frank rutting on top of him like a fucking animal. Ian’s head turns toward Mickey as he steps over the broken door, his face bruised and his eyes filled with tears, and Frank freezes, an expression somewhere between guilt and outrage crossing his face.</p><p>“Milkovich? What th’ fuck are you-”</p><p>Mickey swings the bat directly into his face before he can finish.</p><p>Something cracks beneath the force of it but Mickey doesn’t give a shit whether it’s Frank’s jaw, his nose, or his fucking skull as the asshole goes toppling backward with a shriek of pain. He collapses to the floor, falling off (and, god, out of) Ian as Frank presses a hand to his bleeding face, and he looks up at Mickey with dumb confusion as he says again, “How did you-”</p><p>Mickey swings again, flashing Frank a cold smile as the bat crunches against his already busted face. Frank howls, trying to hold his hands up to defend himself, but any pity on Mickey’s side is quashed at the sight of Frank’s softening dick between his legs.</p><p>“Mickey?”</p><p>Ian’s voice is raw and hoarse, and the shock on his face confirms he definitely didn’t intend to call Mickey of all people. </p><p>“I was in the area,” Mickey lies. “Figured I’d stop by.”</p><p>Ian just blinks at him, still struggling to sit up, and Mickey decides he should prioritise. Frank flails when Mickey grabs him but he’s drunk and pathetic enough that it doesn’t take much for Mickey to haul him to his feet and drag him back down the hallway, away from Ian. </p><p>“You pull this shit again and I’m gonna put a bullet in your balls,” Mickey says helpfully, low enough for Ian not to hear. “You don’t touch him again, you got that, shitwad?”</p><p>“Th’ fuck do you care?” Frank slurs. “’s my family. Mine. Can do what I like.”</p><p>Mickey's smile is icy. "Trust me, fuckface, I care."</p><p>With another punch to the nose for good measure, Mickey plants a foot at the small of Frank’s back and boots him down the stairs. He’s pretty sure he hears another couple of cracks as he falls, bouncing hard off the wood, and when he gets to the bottom, his body goes still. </p><p>Mickey’s honestly not sure if he’s dead or not, or at least sporting a broken neck, but he figures he has more important concerns as he leaves Frank lying there and goes jogging back to Ian.</p><p>Ian’s pushed himself upright in the meantime, although he's still struggling with the t-shirt wrapped around his arms, and Mickey whistles. “Turn around, army, let me help with that.”</p><p>Ian stares up at him, like he isn’t sure Mickey’s real, and Mickey rolls his eyes. “You gonna gawk at me all night or you want me to help you out? Frank’s not getting up anytime soon, trust me.”</p><p>He isn’t sure whether it’s just shock or a concussion but Ian nods slowly. His face is streaked with tears, fresh bruises and swelling rising up where Frank must’ve hit him, and he hunches in on himself in embarrassment when Mickey walks over to ease the material off his arms, revealing the cuts littering the skin beneath. </p><p>Piecing together the injuries with the mess downstairs, Mickey asks with sympathy, “He throw that mug at you?”</p><p>Ian shrugs. “It was closest.”</p><p>He winces as he shifts position and Mickey’s stomach turns when he glances down at the thin trails of blood on the sheets. “You need to go to the hospital?”</p><p>“No,” Ian says quickly, tugging his boxers back up and swiping at the tears on his cheeks. “He- I’m fine.” His face is still red with shame and Mickey can’t find the right words to make it better when Ian asks, sounding exhausted, “How did you- Why are you here?”</p><p>He flinches when Mickey sits on the bed next to him but Mickey purposefully doesn’t touch him as he nods to the phone on the floor. “You called me. I’m guessing you didn’t mean to?”</p><p>Ian shakes his head. “I was trying to call Lip. Or Fiona, or anyone, really. I’m sorry.”</p><p>The sincerity of it makes Mickey’s head spin and all he can manage is a shrug. “No need to be sorry. I’ve been meaning to take that bat out for a test run.”</p><p>Ian smiles a little at that and glances tentatively in Mickey’s direction. “Thanks, I guess. For not hanging up.”</p><p>Mickey just shrugs again. “It’s nothing.” He looks Ian over as best he can and chooses his words carefully. “That happen a lot? With Frank?”</p><p>He feels Ian tense up next to him. “No,” he says quietly. “I mean, he’s an angry drunk sometimes but he’s never-” </p><p>He breaks off with a shudder and Mickey eyes him with sympathy. He’s never been great at difficult conversations and knowing what to say to comfort someone (his fuckbuddy? his boyfriend?) after something like this is kind of beyond his wheelhouse.</p><p>“I can go shoot him in the head if you want?” he says eventually. “Or the dick? Oh, or both?”</p><p>That gets a tiny smile from Ian even as he shakes his head. “No. Just- just don’t tell anyone about this. Please?”</p><p>Kind of stunned that it was even a question, Mickey nods. “I don’t know what kind of conversations you think I’m having, Gallagher, but I’m not bringing this shit up again with anybody.”</p><p>Ian’s smile widens and Mickey blinks in surprise when he leans in to kiss him softly on the cheek. “Thanks, Mick.”</p><p>“Sappy fuck,” Mickey grouses but slips an arm around Ian’s shoulders anyway. Ian starts a little at the contact but leans into him before Mickey can pull back, resting his head against Mickey’s shoulder even as shivers still run through him. </p><p>Mickey kisses him on the temple, careful not to aggravate the blossoming bruise, and asks quietly, “You want me to stay for a while?”</p><p>Ian’s nod is barely perceptible. “Not for sex,” he says, as though Mickey would ever be angling for that after what he just watched. “I mean, you don’t need to-”</p><p>“Shut the fuck up, Gallagher,” Mickey says, rolling his eyes. He gives Ian’s shoulder a squeeze and finds he’s being entirely honest when he says, “I’m here as long as you want me.”</p>
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